She was not for looking at.
Certainly not for looking at by him.
“Shall I repeat myself?” she asked when he said nothing else.
He did not reply. Repetition was unnecessary. Lady Philippa Marbury’s request was fairly burned into his memory.
Nevertheless, she lifted one hand, pushed her spectacles back on her nose, and took a deep breath. “I require ruination.” The words were as simple and unwavering now as they had been the first time she’d spoken them, devoid of nervousness.
Ruination. He watched the way her lips curved around the syllables, caressing consonants, lingering on vowels, turning the experience of hearing the word into something startlingly akin to its meaning.
It had become quite warm in his office.
“You’re mad.”
She paused, clearly taken aback by the statement. Good. It was time someone other than he was surprised by the events of the day. Finally, she shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“You ought to seriously consider the possibility,” he said, edging past her, increasing the space between them—a difficult endeavor in the cluttered office, “as there is no additional rational explanation for why you would be unchaperoned in London’s most notorious gaming hell, asking to be ruined.”
“It’s not as though a chaperone would have been rational,” she pointed out. “Indeed, a chaperone would have made this whole scenario impossible.”
“Precisely,” he said, taking a long step over a stack of newspapers, ignoring the scent of fresh linen and sunlight that curled around her. Around him.
“Indeed, bringing a chaperone to ‘London’s most notorious gaming hell’ would have been rather more mad, don’t you think?” She reached out and ran one finger along the massive abacus. “This is beautiful. Do you use it often?”
He was distracted by the play of her long, pale fingers over the black rounds, by the way the tip of her index finger canted slightly to the right. Imperfect.
Why wasn’t she wearing gloves? Was there nothing normal about this woman?
“No.”
She turned to him, her blue eyes curious. “No, you don’t use the abacus? Or no, you don’t think that coming with a chaperone would have been mad?”
“Neither. The abacus is unwieldy—”
She pushed one large disc from one side of the frame to the other. “You can get things done more quickly without it?”
“Precisely.”
“The same is true of chaperones,” she said, serious. “I am much more productive without them.”
“I find you much more dangerous without them.”
“You think me a danger, Mr. Cross?”
“Cross. No need for the mister. And yes. I think you a danger.”
She was not insulted. “To you?” Indeed, she sounded pleased with herself.
“Mainly to yourself, but if your brother-in-law should find you here, I imagine you’d be something of a danger to me, as well.” Old friend, business partner, or no, Bourne would have Cross’s head if Lady Philippa were discovered here.
She seemed to accept the explanation. “Well then, I shall be quick about it.”
“I’d rather you be quick about leaving.”
She shook her head, her tone rising just enough to make him aware of it. Of her. “Oh no. I’m afraid that won’t do. You see, I have a very clear plan, and I require your assistance.”
He had reached his desk, thank God. Lowering himself into the creaking chair, he opened the ledger and pretended to look over the figures there, ignoring the fact that her presence blurred the numbers to unintelligible grey lines. “I am afraid, Lady Philippa, that your plan is not a part of my plans. You’ve come all this way for nothing.” He looked up. “How did you come to be here, anyway?”
Her unwavering gaze wavered. “The usual way, I imagine.”
“As we’ve established, the usual way involves a chaperone. And does not involve a gaming hell.”
“I walked.”
A beat. “You walked.”
“Yes.”
“Alone.”
“In broad daylight.” There was an edge of defensiveness in her tone.
“You walked across London—”
“Not very far. Our home is—”
“A half mile up the Thames.”
“You needn’t say it as though it’s Scotland.”
“You walked across London in broad daylight to the entrance of The Fallen Angel, where I assume you knocked and waited for entry.”
She pursed her lips. He refused to be distracted by the movement. “Yes.”
“On a public street.”
“In Mayfair.”
He ignored the emphasis. “A public street that is home to the most exclusive men’s clubs in London.” He paused. “Were you seen?”
“I couldn’t say.”
Mad. “I assume you know that ladies do not do such things?”